Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters or themes...
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Sensory Deprivation
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It's an interrogation tactic that's as old as the book. Deprive someone of the senses they use to perceive their reality and then watch as their sanity slip away.
It doesn't sound like you might've thought. Nails scratching against a chalkboard, no. A loud thundering noise, nope. It's soft. It's like a hum. A high-pitched whistle that sits just outside of that happy medium where you know what it is, but not sure if you're actually hearing it or not. It's not certain you might've just been imagining it, that it's all in your head or not. It's not loud enough to be annoyed by it and it's not soft enough to have its presence ignored.
The smell is unforgettable. Brimstone and sulphur would be fine if it was only that to begin with. No other fragrances than one would later on be blocked by the conscious mind and life would continue. But no. It was a smell of death, of blood and roses. The iron smell would be graced with such a light note of floral you might dream you've pricked yourself on a rose.
To only taste would be alright. Even a foul taste. But it was grit on your teeth. Hard and brittle at the same time. Tasteless and formless whilst being distasteful and uncomfortable. The iron smell had not the same metallic taste. It was actually disappointing not to be subjected to that.
And the void. If endless chains and torture was all the eye could see it might've been less overwhelming. But it wasn't. The stark white abyss that followed the initial decent had been welcome at first. And then it was unnerving. The complete white-out. After a while even sensing your own body, your hands or feet... your teeth or tongue... if you could move your fingers you'd be fine. Or your eyes. But it's a heavy lead that's running through your system that ties every fiber of your being down.
An unending abyss to only be stared at for years on end stretches before you. No actual light source had been given, it was only this bleached backdrop of bleakness that filled the days. No hue changes. No differences in saturation. No matter how long the days, weeks and years stretched. It remained the same. Just nothing.
Hell deprives you of your senses, in all ways it can.
Dean breathes in the strange mix of salt, meat, wheat and more and sighs contently. He bites into the hamburger, relishing in the texture of the bun contrasting to the fillings. The subtle changes in taste no matter how long he chews. The crunching of the chew only partly overshadowing the ambient noises of the lake.
"Enjoying yourself?" Sam chuckles when he notices Dean's relaxed state.
"You have no idea…" Dean says, smiling when his voice sounds light-heartedly than he thought it would. He licks his lips and winks at his brother, "Seriously."
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